Ghosts
by peppermintwind
Summary: Death cannot quench ambition, as long as you have someone to reach for. Warnings for slash.


Title: "Ghosts"  
Rating: PG, nothing squicky unless having a ghost attracted to you counts as necrophilia.  
Pairing: Starscream/Rodimus Prime  
Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro. I'm just borrowing them without permission. Constructive criticism encouraged.

_Existence_

Long, long memory has brought him to his place, a forgotten crypt in the heart of Autobot-controlled Cybertron; the final resting place of his build-line since its founding deep in the bowels of history, sprung from the fury of Primus. It is just as they said - he is a ghost who walks among the silent monuments whose names he can no longer remember. Yet he is not even afforded the comfort of brushing wings with fellow ghosts. He is alone here.

So this is _his_ place, his tiny dark silent kingdom. His Cybertron, crowned in golden glory, all things just at his fingertips there to be taken, proud Decepticons kneeling at the dais. Ripped away! Sundered at his height. He howls as he feels his body crumble to dust again, leaving him to haunt this forgotten place. Alone with his rage to kill him over and over again.

And now this Autobot! He invades the silent sanctity of the ghost's kingdom, the heat of a flame the ghost will never feel trapped against his breast. He sits with his false wings against the wall, casting the shrouds of darkness and dust from these monuments with the blue pale hauntedness of his optics. He is almost still, almost silent - does he try to hide among the dead? Does he think to become one of these sightless-opticked monuments?

How dare he.

The ghost stands over him, a column of formless rage/agony finally channeled at something solid, a thing of matter as well as at a universe that even in death fails to accord him proper respect. The Autobot responds with a shudder and a lift of his head; there is a shock of recognition like the final flash of cannon.

For the Autobot _is_ a ghost; or carries them, or was born from them. Yet he lives, he is solid, he is spirit firmly anchored in matter. Longingly, the ghost-prince reaches to close the space between them - it is too late. The Autobot has fled.

_Awareness_

He returns again, and with him the ghost prince remembers the workings of days. The strange sun rises - the Autobot comes. The sun sets - the Autobot leaves, and his leaving is a promise to come back and fill the ghost's tomb with his bright glory once more. This is _his Autobot,_ bound to return as surely as the living world above draws him away, and the ghost prince wonders when he'd become one of those who came to ruin because they tried to keep an Autobot for their own.

Now his Autobot huddles under the wings of a nameless dead soldier, red arms curled around his knees. The ghost remembers red; red was a target, glowing out from the heads of Decepticons and the breasts of Autobots. No target here, the bearer of ghosts, his guide back to the world of the living. For him there is no aggression, no contempt, only an impotent tenderness, an icy longing - to embrace, to teach, to praise him with a poison kiss, such a good servant.

But you cannot serve your purpose, can you, cowering there at the feet of a fallen foe? Autobot! Get up! As before, the Autobot stirs in response to the ghost's rage, but does not flee. Is he unafraid?

Not such a fool, this one. There _is_ fear: not of the ghost, but of the ghosts; not the one who haunts this place but the ones who haunt _him._ They lay their claim in full view, bind him to life just as the ghost is bound to his violent death.

_It is not to be borne._ Blazing-bright memory rises from the depths of Cybertron itself whence Primus once gorged upon his ambition. He recalls shape, he recalls form, he recalls silver wings and a burning red chest. He recalls, and bends over his light-bearer's uplifted face, caressing his cheek with a translucent hand.

"Starscream," the Autobot whispers in awe.

Starscream? Yes.

His name is Starscream.

_Voice_

He hasn't come for many days. Starscream paces restlessly among the tombs, forcing himself visible just to remind himself he can. The darkness presses against him like a living shroud, malevolent in its omnipresence, terrible in its silence. How easy it would be to recede, fade... no. _No!_ I have come too far to slip back into madness! _I am Starscream!_ Do you hear me, shadows?

Calm.

The Autobot must come. He has _always_ come. He hungers as deeply as Starscream does. They will partake of each other, a moment's light for a moment's freedom; and perhaps, perhaps this time Starscream himself will be borne over the threshold. The world of the living! Glory and conquest, laid out for him like an Autobot's surrender, to taste, to touch, at last to rend asunder.

Starscream dares not approach the entrance of the tomb - some unspeakable law of the dead forbids him pass beyond the nave - but starlight for an hours' time seeps past the overgrowth of Cybertronian edifices into his prison, just enough to give definition to the darkness. Here a wall, here a corner, and dead Decepticons in two neat rows. Starscream partakes of this meager light as a fine feast, though in life he would have disdained to touch energon distilled from starlight.

The whisper of stars recedes abruptly; Starscream flies up to confront the thief. A figure approaches from the entrance with cautious tread. His fledgling wings spread against the starlight, replacing it with the dazzle of fallen suns and needlessly hopeful blue optics.

Starscream does not approach. "Why are you here?" he demands.

"I came to see you," replies Rodimus Prime.


End file.
